Life Among The Dead (Book 2): A Castle Made of Sand (24 page)

“Fine. But if you get bit, don’t come crying
to me.” She surrenders the topic once again. “How was work
today?”

“I swear these people are getting stupider
with each passing day.”

Heather laughs, since this isn’t the first
time she’s heard him say such a thing. “I told you, they aren’t
getting any stupider, they’re just returning to normal.”

“All they do is squabble and complain about
the most asinine things.”

“See? Normal.” She smiles. “What was it this
time?”

“The topper was a land dispute.”

“That doesn’t sound…”

“They aren’t even from here! They’re refugees
from Waterloo. One started a flower garden, the neighbor found the
property abstract… I flipped a coin and made the loser move.”

“Can I see the coin you used?” She asks with
a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t see why…”

“You didn’t really go off the coin, did
you?”

“The garden was already dug!” Dan exclaims.
“That prick waited until the work was done before bitching about
it.”

After dessert, Dan and Heather clean up the
boys and partake in playing with them. The boys’ father tickles
them in what he calls ‘Gotcha-time.’ He pretends to eat them in
turn while the boys giggle uncontrollably. A dark thought is always
present in the back of his head during this.
What
if
I
ever
do
turn
into
a
zombie
?
What
if
I
actually
tried
to
devour
them
? He shakes off the
imagery and accompanying sounds of gleeful laughter turning into
imaginary shrill screams of pain.

The boys have been put down for the night, so
the couple washes the dishes together. Dan finds the routine
relaxing because it makes the place feel like home. An unspoken
choice hangs thickly in the air between them. A decision must be
made that will irrevocable throw off their routine, and lead to
many sleepless nights. It’s the culmination of another debate the
Williamsons have been having for the past month.

“I think we should,” Dan says plainly, though
the subject has not been broached this evening. “It’ll be our own
return to normalcy.”

“What are you talking about?” she asks,
handing him a plate to dry. Her eyes return to the basin of soapy
water, but they go wide upon the realization of what he is
referring to, “A baby?”

They’ve talked about it, neither taking a
definite side, only weighing the options. They had always said they
wanted two due to the expense, but that’s no longer applicable. The
old inn they live in has ample room for many children, and there’s
even room for their children’s children. Dan explains that since
technically Jack is not their child by birth, and was instead
rescued when he was nine months old, they’re not breaking their
prior vow. Heather turns and hugs her husband, her hands sodden
with suds. She is happy beyond words, and they have everything they
have ever wanted, but who couldn’t use a little more love around
the house.

##

Though the night is warm, Dustin wraps
himself in a blanket and clicks on the portable heater. He is
fighting a chill no number of blankets or warmth can
alleviate--loneliness. He has found a place to park for the night
that he hopes will prove safe, on top of a hill just north of a
town called Raleigh.

He assumes the dead won’t venture against
gravity unless they are chasing a meal. But he feels vulnerable
despite his precautions, weapons, and the steel cocoon that
surrounds him. He feels lost though he has nowhere to be, no home,
no destination.
No
hope
.

Sleep doesn’t come easy for him. He stares
out his windshield, seeing lights in the distance, but these are
false promises. He knows this region gets its power from a dam on
the Charles River.
Just
porch
lights
with
no
one
home
, he thinks. He spots a
red beacon in the air that he believes to be a radio tower, and it
flashes on and off rhythmically, finally lulling him to sleep.

“Gooood morning, New Castle! This is your
friendly neighborhood DJ, Becka Connelly, coming atcha over the
airwaves. And to all of you in the listening area outside our
walls, stop in and see us. Our motto is: New Castle, we won’t eat
you. As coined by our fallen monarch, the great Bruce
Williamson.

“Being my inaugural broadcast, let me tell
you what this show is all about. I will be passing info to you from
our leaders, and announcements from your fellow citizens, between
the music. You may have seen blue mailboxes all over town that once
belonged to the United States Postal Service, but are now our
suggestion boxes, and not to be used as trashcans anymore, guys.
Write down anything you want me to say on the air, or make musical
requests. Also feel free to jot down your suggestions for the town,
or gripes, as these are not to be taken directly to the king or his
people anymore. Mrs. McCleary, this means you! If you absolutely
must see the king, please make an appointment at our town
office.

“Now, before I play the music I’d like to
remind you all about ‘Living with Survival.’ It’s a support group
that meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the basement of
the community center. A nice, safe place where you can unload tales
of your life among the dead, if those memories are still giving you
trouble…”

##

Becka’s voice emits from radios all over
town. Dan had reservations over the location of the station, beyond
the protective walls of New Castle and over the river, about
halfway to Parson’s Dam. But she assured him that it will be all
right, that she will remain armed and travel with an escort to and
from. It was the suggestion box idea that had sold him. Anything to
cease, or in the very least curtail, the numerous people who stop
him and Carla on the street to issue grievances regarding their
neighbors, or complain about how things are being run. Dan’s only
problem now is the inevitable backlash from what Becka had said
about Mrs. McCleary.
This
won’t
be
good
.

“You know that old bat is going to be gunning
for you, right?” Carla enters Dan’s office with a clipboard.

“I know,” he responds, already exasperated.
Just the prospect of the busybody who lets her severe religious
beliefs sculpt her opinions about everything, to the point of
wanting to convert others to her way, is making his stomach hurt
sharply.

“How about a quickie before we head out of
town?” Carla asks.

“No.” Dan shakes his head adamantly.

“Come on!” she encourages. “You’re in, you’re
out, we’re done.”

“Fine.” He sighs, defeated. “Let’s get it
over with.”

The two exit the king’s office, heading to
the conference room. He asks his sheriff, “What is it this
time?”

“Divorce,” she says, stifling a laugh.

“Another one?” he groans. “Fuck’s wrong with
people? Got my box?”

Carla hands Dan his shoebox. The perfect tool
for this particular matter. He enters the room where a somber
looking couple sits at the long table. Sheriff Carla remains in the
hall, lingering nearby to listen. Proceedings like these have been
getting progressively more hilarious as the king has grown
increasingly hostile.

King Williamson sits across from the unhappy
pair in a plush swivel chair. He doesn’t say a word to them at
first. He just opens the box and removes a bottle of lotion.
“Divorce, huh?”

“Yes, sire,” the husband answers.

“Don’t call me that.” Dan abhors the title.
He just holds out his hand and slides the duo the lotion.
“Rings.”

He doesn’t look at the jewelry he receives.
The slick bands are just dropped into the box where they clatter
against so many others that have suffered a similar fate. “There
you go. You’re divorced. Get out.”

“What about the dissolution of our property?”
the ex-wife asks.

“Any kids?”

“No, but we have a house,” the man says. “I
think I should get it since I made all the payments before…”

“And I think I should get it since I
maintained it. All the cleaning, home improvements, and I just
planted tomatoes.”

“Divorce is never easy.” Dan leans back in
his chair, trying to keep a straight face. “Especially when
tomatoes are involved. They can be downright messy. Ma’am would you
say you’ve been the sole caregiver to the tomatoes, raising
them?”

“Yes,” she says, not certain if he is being
serious or not.

“My decision is clear. Ma’am, you will get
the house. Sir, you will see Sheriff Carla tomorrow about
placement, but you will have full fruit visitation rights, of
course. As far as possessions, you will each take away with you the
shit you brought into your marriage.”

“Can we have our rings back?” the now
ex-husband asks.

“No.” He herds the newly single pair out to
the hall. “I’m sure, in the next few months, one, or both, of you
will drag some new idiot in here that’s dumb enough to want to
marry you. That is when you can select a ring from the box, or the
jewelry store can be opened for your special event.”

Dan waits for them to leave before turning to
Carla, who tries to remain casual but is fighting laughter. “I
thought tough times were supposed to bring people closer
together.”

“They do,” she responds. “But, tough times
are over.”

“No they’re not. There’s still zombies,
right?”

“Yeah, but the people feel safe enough to let
their guard down, be human.” She walks with him outside to the
street where her van is parked--the Attack Track. Her blue ride has
been customized for missions; the windows have been barred, and the
fuel tank has been expanded for extended travel.

From the municipal building, they can see a
fleet of buses parked within the fenced lot of the school. Dan had
asked for them, but not for what is being painted on their powder
blue sides:
For
when
the
sky
falls
.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he
asks, insulted.

“Jeez! What’s eating you, crabby? It’s just a
joke. You know, because you’re kinda like Chicken Little.” She
chuckles, getting a visual of it. “Always running around, thinking
the sky is falling. You expect some big shit storm is on the
way.”

“I don’t expect it.” He crosses his arms
defensively in her passenger seat. “I just want us to be prepared
if something happens.”

“Like the tornado siren?”

“We live in the fucking Midwest. Seems like a
good idea!” Dan hitches his thumb to the back of Carla’s vehicle,
where all of the seats have been removed and replaced with racks of
rifles. Down the center of the van lays a long steel bin full of
ammo. “How about you? Did you bring enough for the rest of the
class?”

“You aren’t the only one who likes to be
prepared.”

On their way out of town, they see Mrs.
McCleary shoving fistfuls of paper into one of the new suggestion
boxes. The sight makes them both groan.

Ever since Dan was the temporary king of the
town, he’s had his fleet exploring the outer reaches for survivors.
Only a handful of souls have been brought in. Then they reported
finding Raleigh, a town that has been sealed much like New Castle,
only there isn’t any movement visible from the outside. They are
all curious as to who walled the place up, and where they are now.
Dan likes the idea of having a back-up settlement, should something
befall their current home. They can place folks there with supplies
and weapons, animals and crops. They can be fully established
sister towns, and one society can escape to the other should the
sky happen to fall.

Dustin awakes from his uncomfortable slumber
with a crick in his neck. The lights he had seen last night have
him thinking, and he has decided to travel towards them. He knows
he probably won’t find life, but he is confident that he can locate
a place to call his own, a place where he can make his stand
against this mad world. He has food for months and plenty of
firepower; if he can just keep his head down he should all
right.

Besides a tense stop for fuel at a remote gas
station that had him white-knuckling the pump, he has been
aimlessly cruising along wooded roads. If not for the fact he
hasn’t passed through any border crossings, he’d think he was in
Canada. The dashboard compass has been pointing north for a long
time. He turns onto a narrow dirt road that may be a rural
driveway. The Camaro slowly rolls in the grooves of the well-worn
path. Branches scrape the purple steel of his roof on his way to
the unknown.

The overhead foliage blocks out the June sun
so completely he debates whether he should use his headlights. As
he’s about to turn the knob, the world opens up around him. The
vast acreage is impressive, and it dwarfs the two story farmhouse
at its center. The rutted drive leads through a time-battered post
fence. Dustin parks well away from the red abode, next to an old
light blue pick-up.

Whispering revolver in hand, he cautiously
approaches. He has one of his many M-16 assault rifles slung over
his shoulder. Three wooden steps bring him to the porch. The boards
creak under his weight, joining the rhythmic squeak of a porch
swing that moves slightly in the breeze. Taking smaller steps
doesn’t diminish the ruckus he makes on his way to the door. The
old house just won’t allow him to sneak up on it, as if it’s all a
part of its age-old security system.

The rusted hinges of the screen door squeal.
He reaches for the knob on the inner door, but it’s locked. He
tries knocking, though he figures if anyone is alive inside they
have already been alerted to his presence. No answer. He doesn’t
feel up to heading around the back to find another way in, since he
already feels too exposed.